


The Fantasy of Justice

by MabelOverture



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Jean POV, Non-Consensual Touching, Not Much Though Just A Taste, Royai - Freeform, Usually Angst, mostly angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:02:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27187676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MabelOverture/pseuds/MabelOverture
Summary: Jean, horrified at discovering that Riza Hawkeye is being preyed upon by a senior ranking officer, is lost as to what he's supposed to do.---“Can I speak with you for a moment?” came his soft, quiet voice. Gentle, yet commanding. Hawkeye’s eyes flicked up from the papers scattered about her desk, glancing swiftly between him and her work.“Yes, sir, but the supply mandates--”“They can wait.” Mustang turned his back to her and crossed the room, Jean watching him with careful eyes as he left. Riza rose with an air of uncertainty before following her commanding officer. The door closed behind her.
Relationships: Jean Havoc & Riza Hawkeye, Jean Havoc & Roy Mustang, Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang
Comments: 17
Kudos: 71





	The Fantasy of Justice

**Author's Note:**

> THERE ARE ELEMENTS OF NON-CON IN THIS STORY. I decided not to choose Archive warnings over "Rape/Non-Con" because the latter seemed too graphic for this particular fic, however it's important you understand that sexual assault does take place.
> 
> I also ask that everyone educates themselves on the hideous truths about the US Military. Actions far, far worse than those that take place in the following story happen every single day in my military and it's a foul, horrible skeleton being purposefully shoved deep in a closet. I guess writing this was one way of getting my angry thoughts out.
> 
> On a lighter note, this was my first time writing a Jean point of view, and I actually really enjoyed that challenge. I'll try and employ him more!

“Can I speak with you for a moment?” came his soft, quiet voice. Gentle, yet commanding. Hawkeye’s eyes flicked up from the papers scattered about her desk, glancing swiftly between him and her work.

“Yes, sir, but the supply mandates--”

“They can wait.” Mustang turned his back to her and crossed the room, Jean watching him with careful eyes as he left. Riza rose with an air of uncertainty before following her commanding officer. The door closed behind her.

* * *

_ “Hey, uh, Chief...look, I gotta tell you somethin’.” Jean’s hand was wrapped nervously around his neck, his brow furrowed, his stomach in knots. He didn’t wish to be there. To be in that position. To have been the one to know.  _

_ Jean hated this.  _

_ Colonel Mustang glanced at him casually, lifting himself off the tree trunk to stand upright at the look on Jean’s face. _

_ The morning was a bit chilled, but pleasant all the same. The country was well into spring solstice where the sun mixed pleasantly with crisp air, birds chirping noisily in the treetops as buds began to bloom. It didn’t seem right, the comforting beam of warmth hitting the tops of their heads. Jean wondered why the weather didn’t have a sense of humor and drop a sea of rain on him. The lip of his cigarette pack caught on the thin paper lining inside and Jean cursed as he forced it open. It was laughable, in hindsight, that he’d tried quitting last month. Mustang watched him silently as he plucked one out and lit the stick.  _

_ Jean took in a long inhale, the smoke billowing out from his nostrils as his gaze settled at a spot in the distance.  _

_ “It’s about Hawkeye.” _

_ He saw Mustang’s posture change from the corner of his eye. Jean took in another drink of the cigarette, musing darkly that he could’ve seen Mustang stiffen even if his eyes had been closed.  _

_ Jean never pretended to understand the strange fondness his two superiors shared. He enjoyed engaging in hypotheticals with his coworkers, particularly Breda who had a knack for storytelling, but in the end, Lieutenant Hawkeye and Colonel Mustang were a mystery to him. They could have been secretly visiting each other in the night, or they could have been particularly well paired superior and adjutant. Frankly, Jean would have believed both scenarios. _

_ The truth in the mystery, however, was the level of...Jean didn’t like to think of the word “protection”, but he couldn’t employ a better term to describe it. They both had that quality, in regards to anyone on the team but particularly to each other. Hawkeye’s was more qualitative because it was practically in her job description. The Chief’s, however, was subtle. Very subtle.  _

_ A year previous, Riza had come down with an infection and although not medically urgent, it had affected her more than she’d let on; she’d stumbled from feeling faint at the office. Spilled the pens on Falman’s very orderly desk everywhere. Mustang had an utter fit about it, marching her directly to the infirmary and fuming the rest of the day. It was a shock to Jean, seeing his commanding officer like that. He’d lost his composure. A man in Mustang’s shoes does not lose composure over a bad case of bronchitis.  _

_ “Well what about her, Jean?” Mustang pressed. Jean blinked and forced himself to face the man. Roy looked at him expectantly, even sternly. It was unusual for Hawkeye’s name to be mentioned when she wasn’t around, and even though Jean knew he had to do this, it still felt something like a betrayal.  _

_ “Something’s been going on,” Jean said finally. “And I’m afraid she’s already halfway to some serious trouble.” _

_ “Trouble?” _

_ “Yes…” Jean trailed. A line of ash fell between his fingers, disappearing into the blades of grass below. He shook his head, cursing the tension he felt in his chest, throat, and mouth. If he could just say it, just outright tell Mustang what he desperately needed to tell him, this would be over. Jean was sure of it. Roy would make sure it was over. _

_ To his credit, Roy was quiet, allowing Jean to swim in his own misery and formulate his words. Smoke entered lungs, puffed out from between lips, and Jean began. _

_ “I began to notice it less than two weeks ago.” _

_ On a Thursday the one before last, Jean had decided that he should stop feeling sorry for himself - it was becoming pathetic. The night prior he’d gone out with a few of his friends from the academy, getting himself hammered and nearly missing the train to work the next day. He’d been feeling lonely. Frankly he didn’t even like those guys much. _

_ Riza, a friend he actually did find himself fond of, had told the colonel she’d be at the range for the next few hours. Jean overheard and decided he missed spending time with her, and encouraged himself to finish up his work to join. Just like old times. Man, Jean missed old times - things were just easy then. _

_ Her back had been to him, arms raised with hands expertly gripping a .45mm that was pointed downrange. Jean smirked; he was going to tease her for using that gun after he was finished tying his boots. She’d been keen on .45’s for years now.  _

_ The indoor range was designed to maximize safety; a glass barrier separated the armory from the range itself, with only two entrances to access the firing line. One from the armory, where Jean was, and the other from the lobby where a bored private second class manned the desk. Riza didn’t even know Jean, the only other person around, was about to waltz in there, give her company, and simultaneously give her shit. The muffled sounds of her gun firing were like music to Jean’s ears.  _

_ He picked up the bulky ear muffs from his lap, opened them, and moved to place them over his head, but he froze. Another person had entered the range from the lobby door. _

_ It was Lieutenant General Dane Markus. A lean man of around 50, he was considerably influential in Amestrian politics and military givings, and it was downright peculiar to see him at any place other than a conference. Jean stared at him with a gaping mouth as the general approached an unaware, still firing, Lieutenant Hawkeye.  _

_ She jumped at the contact of his hand to her back, a gentle touch to tell her that he was present. Jean watched as she ripped off her headset to preemptively shout at whoever just startled her when a gun was in her hands, but the moment she saw it was Markus, her features fell into an impressive expression of neutrality. He said a few words. Pointed to the target she had been obliterating. Jean watched as her eyes flicked downwards before her mouth opened to say something back. Markus put on a smile. Jean leaned forward, stunned, as he gleaned something from the general’s face. Was it charm? Or perhaps, it would have been if Riza looked at all charmed.  _

_ She did not. _

_ Markus took her hand and used his other to grip her elbow, shaking it before presumably bidding her goodbye and turning around to go the way he had come. Just as he pivoted on his foot, the general glanced past the glass and flicked his eyes directly to Jean, who saw the man’s head moving just a hair’s breadth before they shared a gaze. Jean’s face shot down to mimic loading the rifle in his lap in prayer that his observations had not been caught. He waited until he heard the muted sound of the lobby door closing before daring to raise his eyeline. _

_ Riza was still in the position Jean last saw her in, her gun pointed to the ground as some silent thoughts crossed her mind. Then she lifted the weapon and continued firing as if nothing had happened. _

_ He would forget the incident, Jean told himself. He didn’t figure Markus for a creep, so perhaps he was just the touchy friendly type. And even if he was a creep, Jean couldn't be too astonished - even as just a close friend, Jean couldn’t deny that Riza was an attractive person. Be real Jean, he’d told himself, not only has Riza likely dealt with random men but she was the most equipped person to do so. It’s nothing. _

_ Then again, some small part of him, a part that didn’t dare to be too loud, wondered why the general was there in the first place. _

_ A few days following, Jean was still determined to enjoy a few hours of target practice with Riza. Fuery told him she’d left 20 minutes prior. He jogged down to the range. _

_ Jean rounded the corner of the armory, his rifle slung around his back. He stopped in his tracks at the sight of Markus already present just as a chill came over him, the hairs on his neck rose, and the air became stuck in his throat. The general’s hand ran down the length of Riza’s arm, his eyes devouring her from boot to hair as his mouth moved silently, saying words Jean could not hear. Markus stepped into her. Jean’s stomach lurched at the way Riza backed herself into the shelf of the firing line, her eyes wide and unblinking, lips parted in doubt. _

_ That silly, silly notion that Jean had regarding innocent intentions shimmered into a pile of dust. _

_ Jean wanted to run in there, he truly did. To smack the hand off her uniform and yank her out of the corner she was in, to run the palm of his hand into the base of that high ranking nose. To spit on his shiny military issue boots and scream obscenities directed to his character.  _

_ But Jean did not do this for the same reasons Riza did not; because he was a general, and they were just lieutenants. Because their reputation, and their actions, were the reputations and actions of the colonel they reported to.  _

_ For hours Jean debated pulling her aside and telling her what he had seen. To inform her that he knew. Every scenario played out the same; she’d tell him that it was nothing she couldn’t handle. Thanks for your concern, Jean, she’d say, but drop it. You can’t be talking about a high ranking superior officer like that.  _

_ Jean decided if he couldn’t intervene on these occurrences, he would prevent them. He’d accompany Riza to the range next time and forget about finishing up some frivolous report - I’ve been meaning to shoot with you, he would tell her, so I won’t be taking no for an answer. _

_ But Riza didn’t go back. She stayed in the office, never once going to practice the rest of the week. This change went unnoticed by others, but Jean knew why. On the third day since the most recent offense, she left work to head home early. She claimed her dog had a veterinary appointment. It could have been true, or it could have been that Markus caught her on her way home the day previous and acted a fool once more. Jean chewed his bottom lip raw just thinking about it. _

_ The next day, Riza couldn’t leave early. The whole team was grossly behind on several mundane tasks, but she especially had been. Colonel Mustang had some schmoozing cocktail party to go to that evening, and Riza typically attended those events with him, but convinced him that she had larger priorities in the office. Roy looked very disappointed. Breda tried to pull Jean into a joke about it, but Jean’s mind was preoccupied. _

_ She dismissed everyone around 2000 hours. Jean insisted he could stay and help, but she forced him to go. It was getting late and everything else that needed to be done was her responsibility. The men were thrilled, intent on celebrating by going to the local pub just down the street from HQ. Jean begrudgingly agreed to go with them.  _

_ A few hours and only a few beers later, he bid the boys goodnight. Breda threw his jacket at Jean in drunken displeasure, but Jean balled up the jacket and tossed it back. I’m not feeling it, Heymans. Raincheck for next week, you fat drunk. _

_ The night was chilly, and Jean bundled into himself as he stepped out into the street. The loud chatter of the bar faded as the door closed behind him. Breath materialized as he looked over his shoulder at the steps of HQ, wondering if his fellow blonde lieutenant was still hard at work. _

_ Shaking his head, Jean ascended the steps and followed the path to his team’s building. He muttered to himself to just go home. He was being paranoid. After reaching the place, he looked upwards at the window their office was home to. The light was off, the room was dark. Jean sighed; she’d gone home afterall. Go home and sleep, Jean.  _

_ Something unrelated to the temperature crept up his spine when voices carried on the breeze. Muffled and distant at first, but clearer as Jean followed their trail. He begged them to be strangers, to belong to a few soldiers chatting in the night. But if Jean really believed that, he wouldn’t have crept closer, his heart creeping further into his throat at every step. _

_ Tucked in the alley between the administration and town hall buildings were she and the general. He was dressed in military blues, the presumed dress code for the evening’s event. She was pinned against the wall. His body loomed over her with both arms acting as a cage, his palms against brick.  _

_ “Come on, Lieutenant, play along…” he crooned, the tail syllables of his words sounding slurred. Jean leaned against the tree he was hiding behind, straining his ears. Riza tried to flatten herself further against the brick, but Markus followed her to keep their bodies only a few inches apart. She was like a mouse caught in a trap, a predator turned prey. Despite a sternness lining her hard face, there was a vulnerability to her that Jean had never seen before - a paled expression that seemed to blanket very real fear.  _

_ “General, please, it’s late and I’d like to go home,” she countered, her voice both as strong but just as taut as wire. The words bounced against the empty walls and streets, rolling to the place where Jean was, horrified, his fingers wrapped tightly around the bark. He wanted to scream at her, shake her shoulders and urge her to do something, to run, or to shoot the man and leave his body for the midnight patrol, because dammit Riza, I can’t do anything! _

_ There was no faith in the upper brass, no trust, no integrity, and no justice. Anyone with a couple stars on their insignia would never allow two lowly lieutenants to throw mud into the throat of the country's rising hero, Dane Markus. They’d strip them both of military status for attempting false accusations, and if they were even more unlucky, the chief would go down with them. _

_ If that man threatening Riza Hawkeye was anyone different, Jean would have killed him by now. Then again, Riza would have done it first. He was a general, however. A Lieutenant General. A man of incredible power, significance, and stature.  _

_ “I’ll walk you home,” Markus hummed. “Don’t deny a general the pleasure of walking one of his soldiers home.” His slow voice wasn’t polite as his words implied, but greedy and filled with suggestion. He lifted a hand to her collar and began tracing his finger below her jawline. _

_ “General--” _

_ “Lieutenant.” It was a growl. Markus brought his lips to the side of her head so he could whisper something Jean couldn’t hear. Riza stiffened as he did so, his body effectively affixing hers into the wall. Whatever he’d whispered must have been the final straw and Riza firmly pressed her palms against his chest, trying as hard as she could to gain distance. Yes, Jean thought, fight back sis, fight back. _

_ “General Markus, I’m sorry, but that’s enough. I demand you accept my denial--” _

_ The burly hands that were flat against the brick suddenly whipped downwards and snatched her wrists, yanking her hands off his chest. Markus slammed her arms against the wall, shattering the facade Riza had been holding. She gasped at the shock, and likely the pain, of the action.  _

_ “What are you--” _

_ “You listen to me, lieutenant,” her rank came like poison out of his mouth. He twisted her wrists and drove them behind her back, forcing her to arch into his body. “You are, and never will be, in any position to make demands of me, do you understand?” _

_ “General stop--” _

_ “I’m going to do this and you’re going to let me, because we both know that all I have to say is a single word and he’s gone.” _

_ He must have switched both her wrists to one hand, for his second came to the front of her body and danced at the hemline of her pants. Before Jean could process the gravity of the situation, his fingers slipped past the fabric. Riza threw her head back in alarm as she cried out, the sound shattering every cell previously moving blood through Jean’s body, every fibrous part of his being shred like wood to machine. He became so cold that it could have been his own body chilling the night. _

_ It was then that Jean stopped caring. He stopped caring about how the brass would favor Markus and stop the situation before it could even go to trial, he stopped caring about how Mustang could be ruined as his two highest ranking officers were stripped of rank, he stopped caring about anything, everything, except Dane Markus’ blood on the street. This was so overwhelming, so suffocating to Jean, that everything was suddenly backwash and the creature across the street was no man but a vile monster, the greatest threat, the looming terror, that Jean needed to escort to Hell. He grabbed the gun inside his jacket and bolted out from behind the tree. _

_ “But I accept your denial,” Markus suddenly uttered, and Jean skidded to a halt. “For now.” _

_ The hand left her pants and he released the hold on her wrists, leaving her to stumble forwards as he left the other way without a word. His form disappeared into the night and Riza was left alone in the alley. The profuse appeal of chasing down Markus and shooting him point blank was nearly convincing, the allure so potent, that Jean had to holster his shaking gun before he acted upon the desire.  _

_ Options poured over him. He could run to her. Speak with her, comfort her, tell her they would figure things out to make this awful thing end. He’d say she wasn’t alone, she didn’t deserve this, and that he cared deeply for her and would do everything to make it stop. He’d put his career on the line if that’s what it took. _

_ He would do those things for her, but Riza would not do them with Jean. She would gather herself, hide her emotion, and scold him, tell him that it isn’t his business. To forget it, Jean. Leave it be. I’ll handle it myself, she’d say. Do not tell anybody.  _

_ That’s an order. _

_ To stop Markus was the wrong move. To talk to Riza was the wrong move. To fucking stand there like an idiot, and do nothing, was the wrong, fucking, move.  _

_ She was dumbstruck, her left hand blankly feathering over her raw wrist. Even from the distance he was at, Jean could see her trembling. Seeing her like that while he had no choice but remain hidden, broken in a way only she could be, while Jean watched her unravel from the inside was torture. She eventually forced her joints to unstick and she too walked away. _

_ Ensuring to keep his distance, Jean made sure Riza got home without a visitor. Every step made his blood boil, every inhale of cold air forced a river of thoughts to flood his racing mind. Jean felt himself drowning.  _

_ First thing tomorrow, Jean swore to himself as he watched Riza enter her building. Tomorrow I tell him.  _

* * *

The cigarette in Jean’s hand had long burned out, forgotten as Jean recounted these memories to his commanding officer.

“He...had her trapped against the wall, and was drunk.” His voice had lost its firmness. “Twisted her arms behind her back, used his rank and her position as leverage to--”

He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t think it. The tsunami of eviscerating anguish washed over him just as it had so many times in the hours since---

“Jean,” Roy pressed gently. Jean nearly flinched when he placed his hand on his shoulder. “Please, Jean. Please tell me.”

Jean looked over at him. Emotion pricked behind his eyes, burning him. His friend's face was riddled with flurries of feeling, layered with skins of fury, guilt, and most powerful of all, sorrow. Jean let his eyes drift close. When he opened them, his face fell into resignation.

“He attacked her and stuck his hand down her pants.” His voice was flat. “And it was very, very obvious that she did not enjoy it.”

The bridge of Roy’s nose twitched, his brow pulled closer, and the hand dropped away from Jean’s shoulder. 

“Roy,” Jean asserted, “that general is going to push his boundaries further and further until he outright--”

Mustang put up a hand.

“He will not.”

“I’m sorry, Boss,” Jean swallowed. “I’m so fucking sorry for not doing anything.”

The muscles in Roy’s jaw clenched and his hands rolled into fists, the muscles of his arms tensing repeatedly as he worked through the words. Jean felt himself shrivel, felt the spine of his once strong body snap under the admission of his own guilt. He was worthless, Jean realized. He was nothing, nobody, worse than the simple existence of a person. Jean Havoc was a villain. The contemptible chamber of a puppet.

“No,” managed Roy finally. “I wish the choice you made wasn’t the right choice, Jean. I wish it wasn’t.” He seemed to have aged five years, his eyes tired and sad. “But it was. Because had you intervened...I’m afraid Dane would have covered his tracks so well that not even I could stop him.”A deep sadness blanketed over him, like a wave that rose slowly to completely submerge him. “I just wish she could have told me.”

Roy thanked Jean.  _ You shouldn’t be thanking me,  _ Jean thought as Roy held his shoulder in gratitude.  _ You shouldn’t be,  _ he thought as he turned around and numbly walked back inside.  _ You should not be. _

* * *

“Can I speak with you for a moment?” he asked her. Jean watched as they left the room.

“What the hell do you think that’s about?” Breda elbowed him. The smile on his face meant Breda was imagining a scenario far more innocent than what was really happening. Something that in another circumstance, Jean would have been quick to join in on. Instead, he just brought his eyes down to the report he was pretending to study.

“I don’t know,” he managed. Breda tsked in the lost potential to joke with his friend and waved him off, moving along to Fuery who gave a sheepish smile and suggested it was probably nothing.

Jean wished desperately that it was nothing.

“Nothing” wouldn’t have kept him up all night. It wouldn’t replay in his mind on repeat, haunting him, worming its way into the crevices of his brain so that tears would form in eyes that hadn’t cried in a very, very long time. “Nothing” wouldn’t yank on the strings of doubt and insecurity, weaving into the holes of his puppet limbs and toying with the body that had waited too long, said too little, done not enough. If it were nothing, Jean wouldn’t have hated himself.

Goddamn himself, but even more, goddamned this system. Goddamned the country and the little black-eyed men running it. Jean joined the military to serve his country, to protect such a great, virtuous land and be a hero in the making. But that was not his reality. That was a dream, a wish whispered by a naive, shallow brat who had just watched those dreams incinerated.

Riza sacrificed her own safety to protect Roy, and thus, protect the country. She was what that little brat Jean wanted to be, and never was. Because worst of all wasn’t that Riza had sacrificed her own safety, but that Jean had sacrificed it too.

He suddenly felt sick. He lifted himself from his chair, muttering “to take a piss” when Falman asked where he was going, and flung open the doors. A typically empty boardroom had its door cracked, and Jean saw Mustang wrap both arms around his lieutenant. As quickly as he noticed it, Jean looked away. 

He didn’t know what Roy was going to do. He couldn’t outright kill the man, because that meant Riza’s experience was for nothing. Her wounds were for his expense, for his career. Whatever the colonel did, it could not jeopardize his position in the military or his place in the future of Amestris. That meant his options were very, very limited.

The more Jean thought about it, the more he realized that Roy was going to be able to do little more than just talk to the general. Tell him that he knows, not by admission of Riza but someone else, or that he himself had witnessed it. Just the notion that someone else of high authority knew of the general's misgivings likely meant that the actions would cease altogether, particularly if that man was the Flame Alchemist. Jean so wanted to see the look on that bastard’s face when Roy approached him.

The colonel would report him, too, Jean was sure of it. At best, it would get looked into. At worst, they’d brush off Roy’s accusation and tell him that his adjutant was exaggerating. Both scenarios let General Markus off free.

Jean wondered how many others there were. Women who didn’t have a Colonel Mustang to confront the general, or even a person like Jean who’d seen it happen and realize the true nature of the man. Jean thrust his hands into the front doors of the building so they swung open violently, rays of sunshine bathing him and the tile beneath his boots. 

They could have been anybody. Privates, or respected officers like his friend. People who had proud careers and bright futures - people who knew they couldn’t do a damned thing against the general in fear that everything they’d worked for could be in shambles because of it. And Markus? He’d keep living in a penthouse somewhere in the downtown market, having meetings with the Fuhrer, everything he could ever need handed to him on a platter. He’d be a vital part in decision making, a chess piece on the board called Amestris. His name was going to go down in history written in gold lettering.

Unless someone else came along. Someone of resolve, vigor, and a passion more fierce than the wickedness preceding it. Someone who could expose the sin behind uniform after uniform after uniform - and Jean was willing to bet Markus’ uniform would be among the first to be burned.

Roy Mustang had to make it - that was now clear to Jean more than it had ever been.    
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I think it's important to note that I tried to write this as realistically as possible. In a wild dream, Jean could have come in on a white horse and saved Riza. He could have "foreseen" it amounting to this and stopped it before it occurred. But I didn't do that, because that's not what happens. People, mostly men, abuse their positions of power over people who can't do anything to stop them. People who KNOW can do nothing to stop them. It's a sin allowed on a structural scale, and individuals are not given the power to exert justice. I just wanted to put that out there before someone judges Jean in this story, because in the real world, there are thousands of noble people just like Jean who are powerless because the system took away their voice.


End file.
